


Hot Youth

by Sherry_CS



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherry_CS/pseuds/Sherry_CS
Summary: It all started with a fan art created by LisuliaH. She drew teenage Mikhail & Feilong and it was so cute I had to create my own high school universe for them. The work consists of two parts. Part I: Mikhail as a teenager. Part II: Feilong as a teenager. The two parts are not related. See more in notes.





	1. Mikhail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LisuliaH](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=LisuliaH).



> LisuliaH's fan art can be found here:https://m.weibo.cn/6548416787/4370623822031987 
> 
> Contains teenage crush, 10+ age difference, but NO underage sex.

Mikhail Arbatov is the hugest pain in the ass that the Finder Middle School has had to see in all its 60 years, and that is to put it mildly. He’s the one who, instead of sticking a bucket of water above the classroom door according to tradition, hid a puppy in that bucket for the famously counter-canine professor and, as the puppy started licking and the professor started screaming, snuck a fluffy tail in the professor’s pants so the puppy yelped and bounced and chased the poor man down half way across the campus. He is also the one who made napkins out of examination papers and made sure every student got one at luncheon, one day before the exam. Not to mention his midnight parties where films in desperate need of Parental Guide were screened, or his extravagant contribution to the School’s bicentennial featuring the appearance of a hot rock star that turned the whole place upside down. Or his fights, or his love escapades, or the fact that despite all that, he always scored top-notch in his tests.

And now, Mikhail Arbatov is in love. 

It all happened one afternoon when he, again, was called into the headmaster’s office. He got there early and, seeing there was nothing else fun enough to focus on, he leaned back next to the closed door and started rolling a cigarette. He was licking it down when the door opened. A low male voice, smooth and rumbling, very much controlled, said - “I bid you good day.” An exotic scent followed, musky and flowery at the same time, dark like the pine and fresh like the dawn, like a forest wrapped in a little box. A brush of something soft against his neck. He turned around. What met him were the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Dark fathomless orbs, long lashes. They fluttered. Once. Twice. The lids lowered, were momentarily obscured by a strand of jet-black hair, and were seen no more. Their owner took a glance toward Mikhail and, just like that, he was gone before the teen realised what happened. Mikhail looked after the void left by the man, and vaguely remembered that he was tall, and he wore a ponytail reaching between his shoulder blades. 

And just like that, Mikhail Arbatov was in love. 

He wasted no time in finding out about the man’s identity, despite the headmaster’s efforts to brush him off. “What could you possibly want with him?” The old man squinted his eyes and asked suspiciously. Mikhail explained that he was just overwhelmed by the man’s good manners and wished to learn more from such an exemplary adult. The old man answered with lingering suspicion: “You should stay out of his way. He is an inspector from the Bureau of Education, and needless to say, your mere presence is a blemish to the school’s image.” Mikhail thanked the headmaster profusely and bid him goodbye, as courteously as his current object of obsession did. 

This blemish is so going to get that brilliant diamond in bed, thought Mikhail as he strode down the hall. 

Two weeks passed, and Mikhail’s path did not cross with the Inspector’s. And then one day, without warning, as Mikhail’s playing basketball against a few seniors in the gym, he senses a familiar presence. He looks up. There, right by the entrance, ten aisles of seats above, standing in a dramatic backlight is the man of his dreams. Mikhail has never limited himself as to who he slept with or fell for, boy, girl, man, woman, he followed where extraordinariness beckoned, and right now it’s beckoning _hard_. He feels a sudden rush of adrenaline, up his head and down to his groin all at the same time, knocking him off balance instantly. 

The man does not seem to notice him though. He’s chatting with a few officials as they walk along the back of the gym, none of them throwing the students as much as a glance. 

Mikhail keeps playing, but his attention is clearly elsewhere. The ball swoops in, he barely escapes it crashing into his face. He runs. He passes. He shoots. He cheers. But he’s doing all of that mindlessly. His mind is a like a crazed hound right now, chasing the only scent that matters, running like a brakeless train, attacking like a forest fire, oblivious to everything else, be it a war, a meteor, or a —

“Mikhail! Look out!!”

— a ball. He darts aside, but it is too late. The ball hits him, square in the face. 

Now, there’s a reason they called that 18-year-old up-and-coming model a ‘knock-out’. That was his last thought as he fell backward like a hacked tree, before his skull kissed the ground. 

There’s a breeze on his face. The light is too bright. He can’t open his eyes. Is that a bird chirping in the distance? Oh yeah, it’s a bird… a warbler? One of those bright-coloured little creatures he often saw back home, singing away in the spring forest… Though that’s unlikely. Home is half a world away. He opens his eyes. Sitting on the windowsill, drowned in the warm sunlight, obscured by the flowing curtain from time to time, is not a bird. Not a bird at all, but more bewitching, more elusive than the rarest songbirds from old story books. Mikhail tries to sit up.

“Don’t. You’ll get dizzy.” As the man’s voice reaches Mikhail, so does his hand. How did he travel so fast from the window to his bed? A firm press on his shoulder, and Mikhail is laid back down by the man’s long milky-white fingers. The man was reading a book, and now he puts it down and sits next to Mikhail. 

“My name is Liu Feilong. What’s yours?”

“Mikhail Arbatov. They call me Mil, sometimes Mika.” The teen answers. Now that he is face to face and alone with the man, he feels a strange calmness in his heart. He feels like he can talk to him, exotic and forbearing as he is. 

“Hello, Mika. Was it such a complex task to play the ball and leer at me at the same time, that you had to get hit in the head?”

“What? I didn’t…” Mikhail all but chokes on his words. He hasn’t felt this cornered in a long time. Leer?! Did he leer?! Well, he was gawking a little... 

“It’s okay. I get that a lot. How old are you, Mika?”

“I’m... How about I ask you a few questions for a change? How old are YOU?” Mikhail catches himself before giving a simple answer like a good boy. He tries to lead the dance, somewhat clumsily. 

A perfect brow raises on a perfect face. Thin lips quirk slowly into a smile. “I’m 28. I see that you’re a very proactive kind of person. Love to take control.”

“Are you writing that down? Will I be part of your report?”

The man laughs at this, quite elegantly. It sounds almost like a stage laugh to Mikhail. “No, little Mika, I won’t. To be honest, so far you’ve been the only thing that’s the least bit interesting about this school, and I’m not going to ruin that by making you simply an element of it. And the report is done anyway. It was done before I came here.” When Mikhail’s eyes betray his surprise, the long-haired man puts a finger against those petal-fresh lips and says, “just don’t tell anyone.” And he winks. 

Mikhail is still for a long moment, then he sits up, reaches behind the older man’s head and slowly, quite determinedly, he undoes the man’s hair. 

Sooty waterfall of hair falls all over the man’s shoulders, like someone spilled the stockage in a silk shop, like a black rose just bloomed in the room, framing the man’s petite face like heavy curtains framing the silver moon on a clear night. A look of surprise on the man’s face. The first true flash of emotion that Mikhail has seen there so far. He wants to swim up toward that moonlight and plant a kiss in its watery halo, to see if it’s just a reflection, or has he really reached the Moon. He doesn’t. And then he does. 

His lips ascend toward the man’s, like abandonned ballons, in a trance, forever rising, toward an ending no one will ever know about, so do his lips rise, toward a fate that he’s trembling to learn. 

But the man rises before their lips can meet. He rises and flees to the window, his hair flowing, hiding his face from view, all that control suddenly vanished. He’s clearly touching his lips with his fingertips, and his ear is red. 

Oh but Mikhail believes their lips did meet, even for a split of a split of a second. Electric shocks are darting down his spine and running wild in his body, igniting all the slumbering cells and making his skull sing. They did meet, and it tasted just like destiny. He wonders if the other man felt the same. 

Feilong does not turn around. He keeps his back to Mikhail and his face concealed, for a long time. When he does turn around, his features are again schooled, no trembling lips, no flushed cheeks, no burning ears. He is cool like a lily and collected like a pearl. And when he speaks, he speaks with the command of a lion. “I see you are not _little_ Mika after all.” 

There’s a certain humour to his voice, and Mikhail is glad. He moves off the bed for he cannot stay there any longer. “Liu Feilong, when will I see you again?”

The man with the billowing hair smirks. “I’m not promising anything, but a good guess would be in at least two years, when you graduate.”

Mikhail groans, out loud. Adolescence has never felt SO. LONG!!!

“And if I graduate early?”

“You’re still underage and I would never...”

“Ah, so you ARE considering sleeping with me...”

“No need for such vulgarity. You hardly made your intentions secret. I can smell your libido a mile away.”

“Only because you’re too enchanting...”

“Boy, you are entirely too close...”

“And I intend to be closer... deeper...”

“Hands off! Arg! What is wrong with you teenagers these days!”

......

End. 


	2. Feilong

Liu Feilong didn’t adore piano, he didn’t hate it either, but this new tutor was surely something beyond abominable. He made Feilong's weekly lesson a walk through hell fire. Instead of listening to him play and pointing out where he was doing wrong as any good tutor would, as any good tutor did, this new one would walk with him through the garden and make him listen to the _music of the nature_ , as he so madly called it, and imagine _why_ , for example, Chopin wrote his Nocturne No.11. It’s not that Liu Feilong was not an appreciator for Nature, it's only that he would rather appreciate it _alone_. And this new _blonde_ , _Russian_ , _YOUNG_ , tutor by the name of Mikhail Arbatov was all too bright, and too loud, for his liking. 

It was a Saturday like any other Saturday. Feilong had combat training at 6:00, piano at 10:00, chess at 14:00, a few hours to himself, and then Latin and French in the evening. He came down the stairs in his customary white shirt, starched and buttoned up to the top, at 9:40, planning to enjoy a little quietude before the buffoon arrived. He was sorely disappointed when he opened the heavy oak doors to the music room, and found said buffoon already sitting there on the window sill, looking out into the garden and seemingly lost to the view. 

“Good morning, sensei.” Feilong greeted him like a good student. 

“Feilong.” 

“Yes, sensei?”

“Do you feel like going out for a walk?” The blonde suggested, still looking out the window. 

“Sensei, I was under the impression that you were going to hear my Rachmaninoff concertos...” Feilong protested, but stopped himself short when he saw the look in the Russian’s eyes as the latter turned back. It was a sultry, almost sad look. Feilong’s voice softened and he looked away. “But sure. A walk would be nice.”

“Let’s go then.” The Russian hopped off the window and strode out the room, not waiting for his young companion. 

“I thought we were going out for a walk!!!” Feilong yelled over the shrieking wind which was cutting into his skin and making a total mess of his hair. The motorcycle was going over 100km/h and he had to hold on tight to his sensei’s torso to avoid getting thrown off like a piece of cloth.

“This is kindava walk too, isn't it? Only you don’t have to do the walking! Haha!” Wild laughter followed a string of inarticulate words. Feilong didn’t make out one of them.

“I’m sorry! You were saying?” He yelled back, even though he didn’t actually care what the beast said. 

The beast only waved him off. 

They stopped outside a derelict bar. Wind was blowing across a dusty field, a few drunkards stumbled out of a swingy wooden door, bawling and howling a tune. One of them waved a big hello at Mikhail. 

“You know these people?” Feilong asked suspiciously. 

“Yep.” Mikhail stretched his back and answered. “Unlike you, I know everybody. C’mon, let’s go.” He marched on toward the bar and gestured for his student to follow. 

Feilong sneered, but hurried to catch up. 

Liu Feilong didn’t know what to expect of such a place. As the 16-year-old only son of a prestigious politician’s family, he’d never even seen the inside of a decent bar, let alone a rundown one. What greeted him was beyond his worst imagination. The air was stale, smoky, and if he wasn’t mistaken, had a faint undertone of piss to it. The tables and chairs were greasy and well-used, and the bar itself had definitely seen better days. A rough-looking man in his 30s with a head of unruly ginger hair was in the process of closing the place down when he heard the bell chime, and looked up. 

“Yo, Mikail, my man!”

“It’s Mi-ha-EEL, the k is silent, how many times do I have to tell ya, Josh. Good to see you too.” Mikhail grabbed a nearby chair off the table, set it down and, to Feilong’s audible horror, sat on it. He must have heard the teen’s sharp intake of breath, for he turned around, smiled a dirty smile and said, “grab one for yourself, kid. Make yourself at home.”

“Don’t you ‘kid’ me, sensei. I have a name.” Feilong tried to sound as civil as he could. He took a look at those chairs and decided to stand. 

Josh’s gaze wandered in his direction. Eyes going up and down Feilong’s body, he said, “Mik, I didn’t know you like’em so young.”

This time it was Mikhail’s turn to sneer. “Josh, wipe some of that grease off your eyes and look again. This here is a boy.” He gestured toward Feilong’s flat chest, drawing a big square in the air around that area with his hands. “Remember how I like’em all bouncy and bursting? Look here. Note, if you will, the distinct LACK of bosom. See my point?”

“Plain as day.” Josh shrugged. Neither men took into account one boiling Feilong. 

“So what brings you in here so early?” Josh asked. 

“Yeah... I been thinkin’, maybe I don’t wanna sell any more.” Mikhail scratched his head and said. 

“What?” Josh sounded incredulous and tired. “Man, you gotta make up your mind. Look around you. It’s a miracle someone is actually INTERESTED.”

“What are you two talking about? And why am I here?” Feilong asked. They had been out for longer than an hour. He would soon be missed. 

Mikhail shot him an ugly look. “You and your schedules. Do you ever NOT do as you’re told?”

“That’s none of your business.” Feilong retorted. “Would you please tell me what’s going on, or must I stand any longer for this boring chitchat?”

Mikhail sighed. “For a 16-year-old, you sure are full of yourself. Alright, here’s the thing. Tutoring rich kids on weekends is not all I do, ok? I got a life too. Got my own dreams and stuff. So here’s this festival, okay? In Europe. Someone saw me play some time ago some place, and they told someone they knew who told... well, long story short, I got this invitation, okay? To play. In Europe. Multiple venues. Actual audience. And I wanna go. Problem is, I ain’t got enough money, see?”

“Cut the baby talk. I’m not an imbecile.”

“What’re your parents trying to make of you anyway? A general? We are not in a war you know.” When Feilong shot him an assassin look, he veered back to the point. “Anyway, in order to go and show the world what it’s been missing… I decided to sell this bar.”

“So sell it. What’s stopping you?” Feilong was genuinely puzzled. 

“What’s stopping me, brat,” Mikhail suddenly became defensive, “is that this is the only thing I have left of my family. When we first came to this country we had nothing. Nothing except this bar. It’s not much, but it kept the family going for many years, back when this area was not a total wasteland. This was my home. Still is. Then my mom and dad had to go and die on me, and I had to move out, but that’s another story. So it’s not a matter of money, you see. I just don’t wanna see some stranger live in it, even if it means I have to give up on my dream.” 

At this, Feilong fell silent. For a few minutes, he seemed to be deep in thinking. The three of them each seemed engrossed in their own business and none of them looked at each other. Then Feilong broke the silence. “What do you play?” 

“Huh?” Mikhail seemed a bit disoriented.

“I said…”

“The piano, of course. Plus cello, guitar, violin. I sing pretty damn well too. It's nothing really. The Arbatovs are a very musical family. Oh and I look great at the drums, too, even though I don’t play them so well.” Having said that, the cocky Russian rested the back of his head against his palms and sank into that filthy chair like it was a throne. If Feilong had the faintest desire to show the impression Mikhail’s words made on him, the self-congratulation just successfully killed it. 

Feilong looked down at his polished shoes and said, “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe.”

He waited a few moments for the words to sink in, then looked up to find twin shocked looks, as expected. Mikhail was not slumping in his chair any more. He leaned forward and crossed his hands in front of splayed knees, looking at Feilong with intense eyes. “What do you mean by that, Feilong?”

His sensei rarely called him by his name, and for some reason, hearing him say it sent a strange chill down his spine. He took a deep breath and said, “Sensei, today you have shown me more than you were obliged to, and for that I am grateful. The least I can do is to help. I imagine it won’t be awfully expensive to just go to a few European cities and play some music?”

“No... not REALLY really expensive but... look, I didn’t bring you down here cuz I wanted your money, I just... this is gonna sound stupid, but for some reason, I felt like you were part of it, this struggle, this... musician thing. Yeah I know, I know, you’re probably never gonna be a musician in your life but...”

“Sensei.” Feilong stopped him. “I understand.”

Mikhail looked up. For a few moments, they just stared at each other. Standing in front of him was a child way beyond his years, Mikhail wondered what made him that way. Those cool and mystic eyes flickered and avoided his gaze. “And I wasn’t lying about wanting to go to Europe,” Feilong added, “I... I want to see how other people live. Rich, poor, educated, illiterate, men, women, black, white, anywhere in between... I’ve never been anywhere, you see. And I...” his voice trailed off into a whisper, “I don’t know who I am.” 

Feilong blushed at this unscripted confession and Mikhail found it somehow impossible to look away. He was sure he couldn’t possibly, shouldn’t possibly, want the boy that way but right now... right now he was so confused. He shook off some decidedly unlawful images and said, “urrr... why don’t we talk about it on our way back? It’s almost noon. Next thing you know they’d be closing the city down to look for you.” He tossed in some dry laughters for effect and started to head out. Behind him, Josh mumbled a very sleepy goodnight & goodbye. 

Outside, the sun was shining bright. Mikhail handed Feilong his helmet. “You don’t have to do this, y’know? I know how you’ve always hated me, thought I wasn’t doing a good job...”

“Yeah I did. Still do.” Feilong said as he put on his helmet. “But a part of me really wants to see what a fool you’ll make of yourself trying to play music.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see. And if they love me?” Mikhail started the engine. Feilong hopped on and grabbed his sensei’s waist. 

“Then God help them.” He muttered in a teeny tiny voice. 

Mikhail really wanted to turn around and see his face as he said that. 

End. 


End file.
